By Any Other Name
by CaitlinNeko
Summary: A love between a woman and a mysterious gentleman. Loosely based off of The Vampire Chronicles.


**Disclaimer:** I own not the concept of vampires, nor the book that inspired this.

_Notes_: This is loosely based off of Anne Rice's _Interview with a Vampire_ – rather it is sort of fanfiction of it, but vaguely, one might recognize whom some of the characters are based off of, for example – it was more or less inspired by it, though. I kind of like how this turned out. Also note that I don't normally write in first person - I just thought it'd be suiting, in this case.

* * *

I never saw it coming… 

I met him at the theatre, one evening, after a rather dull performance, and he definitely seemed to be the highlight of the night.

He greeted me with the most charming smile I had ever witnessed, and a sweeping bow, his walking stick tucked underneath his black sleeve. He was a most stunning male, too, dressed solely in black, making the rest of him stand out. His rosy cheeks seemed to nearly glow, and his eyes flashed with delight, his golden hair framing the fragile looking features.

"Is this seat taken?"

I could only blush and shake my head 'no' in response, shifting over, a bit, almost inviting him to take a seat next to me, pulling my red dress as red as my namesake closer against my legs.

He took the seat, predictably, and nodded to me, smiling in thanks.

He asked my name with the same melt worthy smile on his lips, and I gratefully told him that I was Rose, and he seemed to take delight in this knowledge.

Needless to say by the time we departed, at the end of the evening (ah, it was nearly dawn!), I was already feeling myself beginning to fall for the gentleman.

He found me, again, the following evening, on my way to my home, and when I explained where I was going, a frown creased that gentle face, and he asked me kindly to stay with him – even if for a short while, only.

He took me walking, that night, through the city, out of it, and to the riverbanks a ways outside the town, a steady hand on my bare arm, reasonably cool against my flesh. He walked me gently through the woods, too, showing me all of the wondrous things I probably would have missed had I been on my own, that evening. Not that I'd ever wander into the woods at all, had he not coaxed me so gently to do so, voice like smooth, sweet honey to me ears, making me nearly melt at such a simple request. But he also seemed to have this surreal understanding of the night, and all that it held – he knew more than I could have ever imagined up on my own, and he helped me gain an almost dreamlike appreciation for the senses, and the way the night worked with each and every one of them.

We were walking through a light part of the forest when I heard him curse, and saw him looking up toward the sky. I followed his gaze, and I couldn't help but smile when I saw the sky beginning, very faintly, to get brighter – and, although we weren't far from the city, now, I couldn't help but ask him if he might care to watch the sunrise with me – experience the warmth of the fledgling light together.

That was when he showed his first signs of any form of anger toward me – his expression turned wicked for a moment, and he scowled at me, his eyes flashing as if I had something particularly stupid, and had enraged him with my words, however innocent in intention and other wise – but such a look only lasted but a moment, and his expression then softened, and he smiled, _almost_ sadly, and shook his head.

"No, my dear, I'm afraid I must be getting home – I'll be in trouble if I don't."

He hurried along with me, and walked me partway to my own home, before saying again that he needed to get home, lest he be in trouble, and so I could only watch, idly, his retreating back, wondering many things – I thought that perhaps he was already tied to someone, had a lover – he indeed wore no ring to indicate a marriage – and was sneaking out at night like this, and it made me feel a guilt in the pit of my stomach, which mingled with a distasteful sorrow, but I tried to ignore it, thinking that perhaps he only had to work in the day – though he looked rather wealthy, by his attire, and other things, or at least he had a taste for good fashion – and needed to make sure he got at least a little rest before heading off.

This thought, of course, had reminded me that I myself should get to bed and, with a yawn, I went to my own home, ignoring the looks the maids gave me as I walked in, for the second night in a row, so early in the morning, after having disappeared all night once more.

It continued on like that for many evenings, he would always seem to find me, every night – often it'd be at the theatre, or while I was on my way home from one, until finally he would find me while I was simply on walks, because I had gone out so late _looking for him_, knowing that he was unlikely to find me in the day – I never once saw him by daylight, but I assumed he was a busy man, and used the night to his advantage, to finally be free of his troubles, burdens and worries – free to finally be himself, but why he chose me I felt I would never know.

Perhaps it was all foolish of me – no, no. It definitely _was_ foolish, but I truly believed I was in love – I was an innocent girl, and though less than a month has passed since it all began, I feel as if it was an eternity ago, like I have grown older – wiser.

A lot can happen in thirty days.

It had been about fifteen days, when I awoke one afternoon in a classy sort of room. I remembered being with him at the park, and feeling a bit sleepy – perhaps all the late nights spent with him were finally catching up on me – but then nothing, before I awoke there. There, as I found out later, was his home.

It was rather late in the afternoon, and I decided that I must have fallen asleep, and he took me to his home, where I had slept most of the day.

It was quiet – unnervingly so.

I rose, slowly, and looked around the room – at the fine art hanging on the walls, and the lamps in various places, at the silk and satin, gliding underneath my finger tips as I ran my fingers along those velvety bedspreads, awed by the fine taste this man was once again displaying, if this was, indeed, his home.

I looked around some more, and made my way into the hall, paying no heed to the handful of servants who scurried out of my way through the halls, and whom I heard, one by one, departing for the evening.

I saw a marvellous piano in one room, and I could almost hear the glorious music flowing through the room, almost see that handsome male sitting at its bench, working tunes as stunning as he out of the keys and chords, his blonde hair flowing gently as he tilted his head to the side, and I could almost feel his warmth as I approached it…

…but the enchanting music wasn't real – it was an illusion playing in my head – and the man wasn't there – the house was still – silent.

I shook away my thoughts, and continued to move through the home, not thinking of whether it was even rude of me to be going through his home like this.

And I felt horror overcome me as I entered one of the rooms, and was overtaken by the terrible stillness and silence of the room, where there lay coffins on the floor. Three of them, all seeming to carry a terrible sense of overwhelming sorrow and resignation, to death itself.

I shuddered, but moved closer to the one coffin that lay farthest from the others, the one the compelled me to be close to it, dread filling my mind as I took in its shape.

For there I saw, for the first time, a child's coffin – tiny and ornate, evidently harmless in truth, but horrifying none the less – the image of the poor soul of a child, either a little girl dressed in white ribbon and lace, or a little boy all tidied up in a mockery of a grown man's black suit.

I was reaching for it, though I wasn't quite sure why, when a sound alerted me – first a creaking that caused me to freeze in place, and then the sound of tiny foot steps, delicate and light on the floor boards.

Right behind me.

I gasped, and spun around to face a gussied up doll of a figure, much like the one I had imagined mere moments before, but quite different at the same time.

She was, in fact, dressed up in ribbon and silk and lace, but her face was different. The girl – no more than five, to be certain – had not the face of a lively child, but instead had the pale flesh of death, the skin framing cold eyes. The image somehow made her look weary, yet the girl seemed wide awake, eyeing me intently with a level, calculating gaze that was not like a young child's, not in the least.

The girl made me picture the child belong to the coffin, again, but this time the image of the children were different – they stood, hand in hand (her left joined with his right), beside one another, their clothes were covered with stains of dirt, and were torn, and I swore I saw a maggot or worm or _something_ crawling across the girls delicate white slippers. Their hair was matted and wet with something, the long strands of blonde hair on both children sticking to their faces, that should have been bright, rosy, round with baby fat and smiling, but instead the skin was a sick shade of greyish blue, and their skin clung tightly to their bones, making their faces being evil and inhuman. The flesh hung looser around the eye sockets that held orbs of solely white and, stretching across both their faces, they had twin devilish smiles. But probably one of the things that disturbed me most was their free hands, which were covered by rotting flesh, smeared with dirt and soil, and dripping blood onto the ground, as they were held out to me, as if inviting me to take their hands and come with them to whatever hell they belonged.

I shuddered, sealing my eyes tight, and shook my head furiously, casting away the image, hopefully for good, never wanting to see the glint those lifeless eyes held ever again.

When I peeled my eyelids open again I thought I saw the faintest gleam of amusement in the eyes of the little girl before me, but it quickly went away, and her face softened into that of a normal child's, despite the creamy skin. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a male voice, the voice of that amazing man, that lifesaver.

He must've said her name, but I must admit that I wasn't quite listening, so I can't be sure, but whatever he said she closed her mouth and frowned, and turned to him, instead.

"I told you not to touch her…" came the words from his mouth, but they were barely more than a whisper and hard to hear. "She's mine."

I thought my ears were deceiving me, but I felt my heart fluttering in my chest nonetheless, and tried to remain quiet, even as I felt the blush rising on my cheeks.

More words were exchanged, but he soon returned to me, and apologized for his daughter's behaviour. I felt myself feel crushed for a moment, not wanting to be just a girl used in an affair, but I saw that even now he wore no ring, and I assumed that something must have happened with the mother if the father and child seemed to disagree with one another so readily.

"I…um…it's-it's okay." I stammered, flushing, and moved my eyes to meet his briefly, before I cast them back to the hardwood floor, frightened by the dull, cold look in his eyes, and the pale, almost white, skin that surrounded the orbs.

He smiled charmingly to me – I could hear it in his voice before I even looked up to see for myself – and led me away, to one of the other rooms – the one with the piano, where he promptly sat at the bench, and began the flow of enchanting, although blood chilling music.

I shivered at the tune, and moved to sit next to him, content to watch his fingers dance over the keys lightly, each graceful movement pulling the note out like prefect, glowing string, the song filling the air, giving it an atmosphere that was both beautiful and terrifying at once.

He sat there, playing, eyes closed, head cocked to the side as if listening, for what seemed a long time, before the music slowly grew softer, and eventually died out all together, but I remained caught up in it's spell for what must've been several, long minutes, before he smiled and spoke again, snapping me out of my daze.

"Not yet…" he whispered to himself, as he looked me over with a calculating gaze, his smile now looking disappointed, almost sad, but he parted his lips to release a sigh, and shook his head, before rising from the bench, and taking my hand to help me to rise to my own feet.

"My apologies, my flower, for the troubles with the past evenings – but I must ask for you to take your leave to your home, now – I am not used to seeing people so early in the evening – I'm afraid I am not ready for such an enchanting guest as yourself."

I felt my cheeks redden as I took his hand and accepted the help to get to my own feet, "I…I understand." I smiled shyly to him, and he led me out, grabbing my shawl and slippers for me, and pulling his coat on, while grabbing his walking stick, acting a fine gentleman as always, and escorting me to my home.

That night should have shown me something, perhaps, had I been aware enough to look for such signs. But I truly believed, then, that I was in love, and nothing could pull me away from my folly.

The routine continued on – he would meet me in the early evening, face bright, and we would spend our evening walking and talking, until I decided I should get to my home, or he noticed that dawn was approaching – although it was usually the latter or those.

Nothing was ever different, after that one night, until…

"Would you like to come back to my home for a drink?"

I blinked, startled by the sudden question, and looked up to him, "A…drink?" I repeated numbly, confused.

His gaze turned annoyed for a brief moment, as if exasperated, but he smiled again, and nodded, "I thought that something…_different_ would be nice."

"Different, eh?" I repeated the word quietly to myself, and then smiled, and nodded, "It sounds…nice." But I paused, remembering my last visit there, "Will…she be there?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if not understanding, but a look of realization soon crossed his features, and he laughed out loud, "The girl? Oh, no! Don't you worry…she'll be out for her own…"

I was confused by this, but decided not to question the nature of such a statement, and instead fully accepted his invitation, and went with him back to his home.

Once inside he pulled out two wine glasses, straight away, and filled both, handing one to myself, which I cautiously sipped, watching him over the rim of the glass as he twirled the glass, but made no move to sip from it.

His face was white like it had been only once before, making an eerie reflection off of the wine in his glass, almost casting it's own odd light into the room that was lit only by a few dim candles.

I noticed, suddenly, that his stony eyes were fixed on me, and I shivered. This seemed to amuse him because he _smiled_ and rose to his feet, setting his glass down, and moving to be by my side.

He whispered my name once, before it changed into his nickname for me a few times, a smile dancing on his lips as he watched me so, "My Rose, my flower…my flower…" his smile grew wider as he moved me into his arms, my glass slipping from my fingers and onto the floor, shattering, the deep red liquid spilling out, and seeping into the wood, before quickly fading away almost entirely, like I was sure it wasn't supposed to do. He cradled me in his arms as I shivered, overtaken by a sudden, foreboding feeling, and he rocked me back and forth gently, whispering to me, "My flower, my flower…what's wrong, my sweet flower?"

I shivered, and looked up to him, trying to find something for me to speak of, something for me to find console with. I looked into his dark eyes, and over his blank face – looked at my love, my sweet, my…

"What is your name?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper as I looked at him, feeling more terrified yet, for a reason I could not place.

"What's in a name?" he whispered to me in response, a smile playing wickedly on his lips, "That which we call a _Rose_ by any other name would smell – would _taste_ – as sweet."

I shuddered again, feeling a certain horror come over me with his words, and tried to pull away, but his grip held fast, and I felt my heart picking up in speed, and I grew panicky, "Please!" I whimpered, "Let me go!" he hummed slightly, and leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on my neck, paying no heed to my words – I knew he had heard them. "Please!" I repeated, feeling pathetic and helpless, and the feeling of terror that would soon overcome me entirely, "You're scaring me…"

I managed to get free, though I was sure that he had let me for whatever reason, and I scrambled away, knocking the bottle of wine onto the floor, hearing it shatter, and feeling the glass push past the soles of my slippers, and scraping lightly at the bottoms of my feet. I watched him rise from where he had been kneeling, "My flower…" he whispered, with a light frown on his features, but it soon morphed into a wicked smile, and I saw fang like teeth flash in his jaws, "You said we could come back here for a _drink_, my flower…"

I had no time to react, nor did I even notice the glass forcing itself into the bottoms of my feet, as I felt him on me again, his mouth hovering over my neck for only a brief moment before there was a brief, sharp pain, and I felt something sink into the tender flesh on the side of my neck. I wanted to struggle, to scream, but my body barely wished to move, only allowing gentle movement that was futile against his iron grip, and my throat sealed up, not allowing my voice to get through its passageway any longer.

He stood there with my teeth deep in my throat for a long time, before he released me, and simply let me drop…

I'm not sure how my mind is even still working at this stage, but it is barely so. My head is swimming, and I can't see straight, though I can still make out the silhouette of the man I thought I had – perhaps even still do – loved standing tall above me, his figure even more menacing than it had been in the past few minutes, over what had happened.

I can still feel the very last of my lifeblood slowly seeping out of me, to join the wine on the floor, the two deep reds mingling serenely in the corner of my eye.

I gaze up at him as he stares down at me, his wine glass from earlier in his hand, as he watches me bleed the last of my blood, moving quickly toward death.

"Ignorance is the curse of God…" he says, slowly, coldly, as he crushes the glass in his hand, allowing the wine to spill onto my breast, and over the puncture wounds in my neck, then drops the glass to cut at my skin as it falls.

"…and so am I."


End file.
